Monday, January 31, 2011

If you could, you would.
If I would, I could.
And vice versa.
And vice-versa, again.
Or maybe, not.
Not, yes, not.
Chronicling, I kept saying.
And then, I gave up.
And then, you gave up.
And then, they all did.
And it continued.

I stood against the wall.
The cold penetrates the cotton, as usual.
I touched it with my index finger.
And then, with my whole right palm.
Still, it doesn't feel real enough;
Real enough to clutch onto it.

And one after the other, the paradoxes establish themselves.
Distractions, I hope.
But they all are like the magnetic compass.
Can't stop pointing North, no matter where I take it to.
No matter where, when, or how.
Tilted, upside-down, from every point of view;
It shows you.
So I decide to break the needle.
But no, it wasn't such a good idea.
I could have changed the marks, rather.
The diametric metric ones.
Or I could have chosen not to look at it.

But, I did so, didn't I?
I slept it off.
But an overdose has a hangover.

Friday, January 28, 2011

The cold metal finger of the mental,
Digs into the surface of the conscious;
Gets in touch with the untouchable.
Untouchable, because it's non-existent.
Apparently, of course.
Were they flying around the head?
Was I looking out?
Or did they crop up in the brain-bed itself?
Was I looking within?
But, firstly, find me the Line Of Control,
Within which, all of it is me.
Outside which, the world is physical or metaphysical;
That's none of my business.
But definitions are, definitely.
It's not even a conflict.
Not even the phenomenon of fluctuation,
That I used to talk about;
Once upon a depressed day.
It's far beyond the regular.
A necessity that I weave.
And then tear apart.
And then, weave again,
To my great discomfort.
Unto unknown intentions.